It’s a Man’s, Man’s, Man’s, Man’s World After All

Sigh, it happened again this morning. It’s so reassuring to find out your place, your status, your worth. Let me give some examples:

May I speak to your husband? Sure, and tell him to finish cleaning the toilets while you’re at it…

Is your husband home? Home? For the love of god I can’t get rid of him.

Would it be possible for your husband to be there when I give you the quote so he could decide then? Why, sure. And the fact that he could care less what color I paint the laundry room is completely inconsequential…

I can’t give you that information without speaking to your husband. Would you have to shoot me if you did? I swear, he’s not my mama.

Do you work? Well, of course not. We all know that housecleaning and yard work and child rearing have zero labor component involved. It’s a freakin’ miracle around here…all the time.

Do you have a real job? And you think you’re being more politically correct by phrasing it this way. You think wrong. It’s real, what I do, real irritating, real annoying, and at times real rewarding…just like a real job.

What do you do for a living? I breathe in and out…how do you keep living?

We refinanced our mortgage recently. And I so thoroughly enjoyed the experience. I loved, loved, loved it when I called to close out the home equity line, which we had never drawn a single penny on, and was informed that they could only do it with my husband’s consent but did not need mine. This despite the fact that I signed all the papers for it and my name was on it. Hubby called them and they said it was just that I was not considered a responsible party - woo hoo, time to replay my teenage years, this time with money - despite my name being on it. Hmph, betcha they wouldn’t have had a problem tracking me down like a dog if we’d taken money on it and hadn’t paid it on time, uh huh.

And after the refinancing was completed the mortgage company has about broken their necks to thank hubby for allowing them to have our business. Ask me if I’ve gotten a thank-you call or email – go ahead, ask me, I dare you. Now who do you think pays the bills around here? I don’t mean makes the money, I mean gets all the bills set up to draft on time or the checks in the mail? Hmmm? Why that would be the person with that Bachelor’s of Science in Accounting whose work in the world used to be worth a pretty penny…But I’m worthless in the world now because I bring in no income of worth.

I’m sure all of you have heard about the famous heel-in-mouth moment by Hilary Rosen, a political strategist who was quoted as saying that Ann Romney had never “actually worked” a day in her life. I blogged about it, and Mary blogged about it as did many others. But the issue is deeper than the Mommy wars. Long ago I realized that the only judge that counted regarding my children was my own conscience. I didn’t stay home to make a political statement and when I was working it wasn’t to make a political statement either. It was to make sense of where I was supposed to be at the time.

And whether I’ve been in an actual workplace or at home, the dismissal of women has been a recurring theme. Let me share some more examples, this time from my prior life:

Can you take the notes? The secretary is out. (Why, no I can’t. See I’m at a higher level than you are, so you take the damn notes.)

What would you do if we had an emergency at the plant and you had a sick child? (Well, I’ll just tell my kid to call a cab, of course. He’s brilliant for a two-year-old.)

Can you make us some coffee? (Nope, I don’t drink coffee. Perhaps you should ask one of the admin’s instead of the CONTROLLER.)

Every single statement I’ve used has actually occurred. My answers have not, well, except the once – I’ll let you pick which one that might have been. Sadly, I could give more and more examples. And even sadder, there are women who dismiss other women – because they can’t seem to comprehend our own value. They’ve been brainwashed…or they’re just stupid, err unenlightened…take your pick.

Women are often summarily dismissed. I lay part of the blame at how we are raised to be accommodating to others, but at some stage of life, you would think most reasonable people would recognize how unreasonable it is to dismiss others. Perhaps we should judge people based on how they treat others and not on their income. As the mother of two sons, I am thrilled anytime they discuss topics with me on an equal level. Of course since they are teenagers I’m actually thrilled if they just acknowledge me, but on a deeper level, I want them to know that women are not to be dismissed. And it actually is a lot of work to raise men out of boys, especially men who recognize the worth of a woman.

Last Night I Heard the Screaming…

Memorial Day is a day to remember those who gave unselfishly to make our world a better place, but this weekend many families will not have been focusing on those fallen in combat but on their own wars, the wars of domestic battles.

Friday last week, one woman's tragic death filled the news programs here in North Carolina. She had lost her life at the hands of the ultimate bully, her husband. She had been waiting outside an elementary school for her two children when her husband gunned her down. The report said that the incident was the result of a domestic issue.

Some would argue that the man (I would not necessarily call him that, but that is my opinion) just cracked, like an egg. But, to wait for someone and shoot them in cold blood is no egg, it is a monster. Me, I would say he was demented. I don't mean to sound harsh, it is just that the reality of domestic violence is everywhere, affecting innocent individuals, making their lives a living hell.

There is a poignant song sung by Tracy Chapman (linked below) that sums up what happens all too often. People try to ignore the signs of domestic abuse, not because they don't care but because they find it hard to accept that these horrible things are happening to people around them. We don't like to interfere in other people's lives, we are afraid that we will be known as busybodies.

Most women, who find themselves in a violent household, try to hide it. Their fear of being found out rules their world. They feel like a failure and when we ignore the all too clear hints or signs, we add to that feeling, confirming their damaged opinion of themselves. The current statistics on domestic violence show this is a HUGE problem and getting bigger by the year.

Every 9 seconds a woman in the US is assaulted or beaten. Every day three women die, murdered by a husband or boyfriend. Imagine how many women are being hurt as you read this article. It is a frightening thought.

Around the world, one in three women will experience some form of violence in their lifetime, predominately carried out by a member of their own family. That very same family who is supposed to protect them becomes their nightmare. In addition, in those families, studies suggest that around ten million children will witness those acts. It is a proven fact that those children are twice as likely to become themselves adult abusers. The cycle goes on and on, snowballing, and never ending.

We cannot eradicate domestic violence, just like we can't control our enemies, but it is time to help, time to stand up and be a busybody when we get the instinct something is wrong. We have neighborhood watches to protect our properties from crime with people who will not hesitate to call the police if they see suspicious behavior, yet many of those same people will turn a blind eye to a domestic issue just because it is not their business.

Well, let's make it our business and protect those who need it because you never know, one day, it just might be your daughter or granddaughter who needs that help. I urge you to keep aware, look for the signs, and assist. I am not suggesting becoming vigilantes, just asking for some extra community care. After all, one word in the right direction could save a precious life and keep innocent children from losing a parent.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1iUoqTaowaI ,

The Ramblings of a Woman Trying to Make a Happy List

On Tuesday, I was fired up about making my ‘Happy List’. Yes, I was going to conquer the paper, become queen of my own destiny, start making a mental foundation for me to stand on, but what happened – well, life got in the way!

My life gets more like a cheesy soap opera with every passing day (which incidentally my daughter has asked if we could start following one -- as if there is not enough drama in her life already!). The only thing is, I am not wearing Versace, I don’t have the hunky husband who earns a million after tax, and brings me flowers home every night (yes, I know it is only because they are having an affair), and I am real, every bit of me. I have no extra silicone padding on my chest or extra filler in my lips, I'm just plain old me.

So what happened – crap, lol (just proving I have a modern sense of humor).

Upon my enthusiastic return from the West Coast, (Santa Barbara, I love you! Can I marry you? Is that legal?), I get mail from an old friend, which sent me into a tizzy. Reminding me of why I am where I am today. Cold sweats ran through my body but I suppose it could have been worse, they could have been hot flushes. My brain started to race, and I was hooked. Like a fish, being reeled in, I needed to fill in the blanks of the missing soap opera. The only thing is now I, sort of, wish I hadn’t. The past is written and it cannot be changed so why stay locked in it? I think it’s called morbid curiosity. Morbid – ha – oh yes, definitely the right description.

My happy list is even harder to write after this encounter. The past has gotten in the way once again. I realized I still have a lot of unfinished business to deal with, but what comes first, the chicken or the egg? Do I go through a type of painful re-birth of myself, hacking away at the old demons in order to be a stronger me or do I plop an existing egg on the floor and crack it open? What a mess and the blooming happy book doesn’t give me the answer or I haven’t got to that chapter yet!

But wait, that is it. My light bulb just went on. Life is not a book to follow. It can be re-written but the originals are still out there in indelible ink and no amount of erasing can get rid of it. My guru book is right after all (phew), your happy list evolves with you, it changes as your life changes, as you meet your goals, or not as the case may be. I suddenly feel a bit better with my dilemma, but that happy list is still unwritten. 

So here is how my list is going to start:

What makes me happy?

1. To not be afraid of the past.

2 To like who I am.

3.TBA

4.TBA   …………………………and so on! 

Now I just have to figure out how to achieve this – life is an ever-decreasing circle I think!

Keep on Shining Through……

What makes a woman emotionally strong?

Here at 4gaby this question is one that has been asked many times. Usually our
answers include character or will power--don’t know we are right, but you only
have to look at the depth of the essays written on the website to know there is
strength in all of us. It is well known that the stereotypical woman is supposed
to be weak physically compared to a man but emotionally, I feel, they are by
far the stronger sex.

My final confirmation of this came this week. I came to learn the true strength
that a woman can display in the face of adversity. After tracing my family tree
for the past three years, I discovered that my late maternal grandmother,
Alice, had endured terrible circumstances during her early married life. Somehow, she managed to keep the people she loved free from the pain of this and she carried these tragedies with her silently to her death in 1980. They sat buried and I uncovered them. I am not sure how I feel. Am I betraying her by making them known, or would she have wanted me to tell, maybe finally allowing the truth to be heard? I chose the latter option, feeling that such a strong woman’s plight should be heard by those who loved her and those who could be inspired by her.

My grandmother was married at the tender age of 22, in 1922, to a man who was suffering from TB after the trenches of the First World War. Two years later on January 9,1924, with one baby girl aged 1 year old, her husband died and her baby, Joyce, died just 3 days later on January 12. There were both victims of TB. She was 6 months pregnant at the time, and alone. She had just lost the love of her life and her darling baby. It happens, you might say, but in 1924 the world was different, especially in post-war England. She gave birth three months later in a London Lying-In hospital to Winifred Mary on April 16^, 1924. After this, she went to live with her cousin, a blind veteran, and became his care
giver until his death.

No trace of Winifred could be found in the public records after her birth, she
just seemed to disappear. I searched and searched but could not find her. I assumed, due to the extreme circumstances, that she was given up for adoption, or even worse, had suffered the same fate as her sister. This was not so, as I found out this week. Winifred appeared again on a 1980 death certificate of my grandmother’s sister, Lydia. She was the person who registered the death naming herself as her niece. She had not only lived but was obviously close to her family roots. So the questions are; why did she not live with my grandmother? And who brought her up? I wonder, was the pain of losing her family too much to bear, or had Winifred settled somewhere and it was better for her to stay where she was? We don’t know that yet, and we are hoping to find Winifred alive today, although she will be 87 years old, to give us answers. My grandmother went on to raise six more children (one of whom was mentally impaired), alone, their father lost to the war once again. My mother was child number six and never knew her father as he died just after her birth. The pain Alice must have endured is inconceivable. She never uttered a word of her story to any of her children, let alone tell them they had an older living sister from a first marriage. I was the one who broke the news to my mother, and now, with her permission, I have a task to do. I have to find Winifred and finish my grandmother’s brave, sad story. I hope that I can for her sake. She was strong enough to carry on with life, being that kind, quiet, genteel woman I loved, and now I need to honor her and show her family not only how strong but how amazing she actually was.

Once Upon A Time I Had A Life, Too!

So why is it so hard for women to talk about themselves? When I wrote my first Goodness Gracious column, "Don't Expect Me to Talk About Meeee," it really struck me how many of my friends have a difficult time discussing their own accomplishments. We can talk about our children (which can be obnoxious in its own right), our spouses, siblings, shoot I've even heard people brag about distant cousins or being in college with Sandra Bullock (OK, that was me, and I really was in college with her - just never met her - Accounting and Drama majors didn't exactly hang together). But when it comes to talking about yourself and your own accomplishments we suddenly get the "goodness gracious, you don't want to hear about me" syndrome. So what do you think makes it so hard? And how do we do it without being obnoxious? 'Cause we all had our own lives...once upon a time.